Price of magic
by vikmonster
Summary: Everything has a price that we pay, and sometimes that price is unknown. As Harry learns and prepares to fight The Dark Lord, what will be the price that he pays for Magic
1. CH1

**The Price of Magic - CH1**

AN: usual disclaimer applies

"Evacuate the vicinity. Evacuate the vicinity. Use the west gate. Do not use apparition. Do not use portkeys. Do not use the portals." - The automated message from the sound crystals installed in every major building played, interspaced with a blaring alarm. "Move back now!" - The High Protector yelled, before beginning a long chant to stop the oncoming… something. It had the appearance of hot summer air, with the image behind it slightly distorted, the effect itself almost invisible to the naked eye. Despite this, anyone with a grain of the Gift could feel the unnaturalness emanating from it, making the hairs at the back of their neck stand up, and their head to start pulsing with pain.

The High Protector suspected, almost knew, that his efforts were to be futile, and he would likely perish today, but slowing the advance down by even twenty minutes guaranteed that hundreds of innocents would not be lost in this horrible day. Knowing this, he steeled himself and the Heavy Words, calling to the entity which is Magic, began flowing like a steady river.

The distortion won. After an hour, Old Magic gave way to the grinding gears of Time itself, and the wall rushed forward. The High Protector could do nothing but stand as millennia passed in the blink of an eye. After a fraction of a second from the outside, but millions of years from inside the distortion of space and time itself, only the Mythril staff clattered down onto the beat up sidewalk, and a handful of dust flew off, all that remained from the most powerful wizard at the time.

Harry woke up with a jolt - the dreams of Atlantis being lost, and other ancient events that he didn't even have a clue when and where they happened, pursued him ever since he used the Merlin-forsaken time turner. On the bright side, he could at least understand everything that happened, despite the language having nothing to do with English, almost as if the information itself was fed to him. The headaches returned and with it the painful reality of waking up at nearly five AM - too late to go back to bed and rest up properly, to early to be well rested.

He wasn't sure what to make of these dreams - they seemed to be based on real events (or at least that's what Hermione said), but they used magic that even the bushy-haired witch had no idea about. Last time Harry talked to her, she suggested something that he was finally seriously considering. To talk to the man that seemed to know everything, even if he left Harry in the dark for the majority of times - Albus Dumbledore.

It was with these uneasy thoughts and pursued by the pulsing pain in the back of his head, seemingly incurable by potions, that the day passed. Hogwarts' rumour mill was having a field day over the miraculous escape of Sirius and Buckbeak - although for some it was a less than happy occasion, with a seeming mass murderer at large, and a known dangerous creature out there. Regardless, unlike the previous times, no-one truly believed that Harry and his friends had anything to do with it, and Harry was more than happy for that to be the case. He was more than tired of the fickle thing that is the public opinion, and seeing his Godfather, one of the few surviving links to his parents being falsely imprisoned, did not help this cynical opinion.

The end of the day rolled around, and it was only then that Harry decided to talk to Madam Pomfrey about his constant headache. He was met with the smell of potions and cleanliness of the hospital wing, and its matron's frown on seeing her usual patient.

"Hello Mr Potter, I did not expect to see you here so early. Any concerns?" was the tired question from the mediwitch.

"Hello Madam Pomfrey, sorry to bother you again" Harry stammered "I seem to have a headache that the potions just can't seem to shake off"

Pomfrey's raised eyebrow and a "come hither" gesture with her finger made Harry fully convinced that he will not be getting out of her grasp any time soon.

"Alright, anything else that you suspect might cause it - high intensity magic or exercise, perhaps the end of year stress?"

Harry thought for a second. The headache only started when the dreams started, but why would that… Regardless, it was odd, and Pomfrey asked for his suspicions.

"I've started having these recurring dreams of magic and…"

"Mr Potter, please say no more. I am under orders to report this kind of situation to Professor Dumbledore." Pomfrey interrupted him "Please remain here, I will be back momentarily"

It was a sight of a frowning Dumbledore, missing the usual twinkle in his eye that greeted Harry. This alone was cause for concern, but when Headmaster asked Pomfrey to leave and sealed the room with the flourish of his wand, that's when Harry really began to worry.

"Harry, can you describe these dreams to me," Professor asked in a grave tone. And Harry recalled. As he spoke, professor's face cycled from an expression of confusion to dismay, and then to one of a pleasant surprise.

"Mr Potter, can you please describe what I'm holding in my hand," Dumbledore asked with a sense of almost trepidation, holding up some swirls that formed into a winged snitch, which Harry immediately answered, yielding a smile from the old wizard.

"Professor, why are you asking me this. My eyes don't hurt, it's my head" asked Harry, thoroughly confused by the entire endeavour, and the inexplicable emotions on the Headmaster's face.

"Please be patient with an old man like me, Harry. It will be easier if I was to demonstrate it again. Simply watch what Poppy, I mean Madam Pomfrey, says" With these words, Dumbledore asked for Pomfrey, and she emerged from her office. Repeating what he did with Harry identically, Pomfrey only stared at Dumbledore blankly and said:

"Professor Dumbledore, if you are seeing things in your hand, I can refer you to the appropriate healer at St Mungo. There is absolutely nothing in it." Answered the mediwitch, unhappy about being distracted from her work.

"My apologies Poppy, simply needed to show Mr Potter something"

"I would appreciate, Albus, if you left me out of your schemes and let me get on with my work" grumbled the healer in response, and turned to go back to her office.

Harry sat there startled. He saw the thing in Professor's hand. Clearly, the Professor saw the thing in his hand. What was going on? It was that exact silent question that Dumbledore answered.

"It seems, Harry, that you are starting to be able to see magical emanations. Something that I am only capable of doing with these glasses. Talking of which, are those the same glasses you had before, or a gift from your mysterious benefactor?" Harry only shook his head "That answers the what but doesn't answer the why. If I was to guess, your headaches are from Hogwarts being so full of magic that your head simply can't handle the input, as the field is so saturated, much like our eyes adjust to the light levels, but we get blinded if we suddenly open them in a bright room."

"So what do I do Professor?" Harry was not keen on headaches. He was also not keen on this getting out and resulting in yet another round of hated whispers behind his back and staring by the students. In fact, he was not keen on the whole thing that seems to be surrounding him every year, but as the old adage goes, "Man proposes, but God disposes". There was not much Harry could do about all of those alone.

"The answer is simple Harry. We will need to develop and control this power. Over the next few days, I will pass a few books to you, and I would appreciate if you would read them. And I mean personally, not how you and your friend Mr Weasley seem to have Miss Granger read most things for you". Harry had the decency to blush at the gentle rebuke, and it was true enough. Between the three of them, Hermione focused on the academics and Harry and Ron were more than happy to push that part to her. Likely that had to change now. Harry was taken out of his musings by Dumbledore.

"Also Harry, I would like to think that this new development is not to be widely shared. I am sure you would agree with me there" Harry only nodded. It seemed that the Headmaster understood the annoyance of muttering behind the back.

The end of the year passed in a flash. Harry was reading the two, surprisingly thin and simply worded books - "The Art of Focus" and "Brief History of the Magical World (with pictures)".

The Brief History was self-explanatory, as it went over the beginning of Magic as we know it with the birth or creation of life, and through the major magical events - such as the rise of the Egyptian empire and its slow decline, the rise of Atlantis and its mysterious destruction (with Harry's dreams putting a new light on this) as well as the development of the magical people of Europe from the Romans, to the dark ages, to the Renaissance ending with the stature of secrecy in late 17th century.

Interestingly, the magicals of Africa, Asia and the Americas were only briefly mentioned, with the author implying the inability to disclose information about those groups, bar the basics. The wizards of Africa, great shamans of the plains, would not use wands to "direct their power", but rather trap spirits to do their bidding. Apparently, this resulted in an equally powerful system of magic, but one focusing on preparation and resource allocation. This already had Harry confused - how can an Ancient Spirit be as powerful as some person, but he had no answers at this time. The magicals of Asia used runes and blood magics to talk to the world directly - whatever that meant. Regardless, they had the largest share of True Seers and warders. Nothing was known of the Native American wizards due to the utmost secrecy in which they practised their magics.

The Art of Focus was an introductory guide to organising one's mind and tracking the magic flows through the body. The foreword advertised this to people with "low magical ability" which had Harry somewhat insulted, but regardless he pushed on through the book. It, in his mind, was definitely worth it - as now he had much cleaner control over the spells and coupled with his ability to see magical traces, he was hoping to get start unraveling the mystery of the strange dreams, and the occasional feeling, or understanding, of what was to happen a few moments away.

But the dreams themselves have not stopped - Harry kept seeing a place in the heart of the desert, where three magicals of seemingly ancient Egypt conducted classes and rituals in a hidden from normal view building. The desire, the need, to go there was growing by the day.

During Harry's weekly chats with Dumbledore, where the Headmaster checked Harry's progress and trained him in basic usage of what he called "True Sight", Harry did once bring up the dream and the urge to go there - but Dumbledore vehemently opposed such ideas with the criticism of danger and lack of practicality. Despite this, in his heart, Harry knew he had to go there.

Harry's friends also noted the change in him, with Hermione commending him on becoming more studious, while Ron just scoffing at it. Harry dared not to tell them why does he have weekly meetings with the Headmaster and when Ron guessed to Hermione that it was about how to get Sirius free and the rat to justice (Ron still shuddered to think a grown man shared a bed with him for the last few years), Harry chose to not correct him.

The end of the third year brought about many changes for the Boy-Who-Lived, and only the Sleeping Gods knew what history would become.


	2. CH2

**The Price of Magic - CH2**

AN: usual disclaimer applies

Lord Voldemort sat in his armchair in Little Hangleton. The brief flashes that he saw of the Potter boy meant that some of his old guesses and theories on the nature of magic were a lot more close to reality than he dared dream. With a jolt of easily ignored pain he opened a mental link Wormtail, who was in the town, "procuring" supplies from the muggles.

"Plans have changed. I will need you to get me blood of any of the people that opposed me. The order of preference is as follows: Potter, Dumbledore, Moody..." what followed was a list of known Order members in a rough level of personal power. "You don't need to kill them, in fact, it's better if you don't, and then come back here. I simply need a vial of their blood, for the ritual you should be well aware of."

If Voldemort had hands, now would be the time to wash them - talking to that slimebag was a necessary evil, yet far from pleasant. Voldemort knew that once a traitor, always a traitor, but Pettigrew was his only option in the sorry state that The Dark Lord found himself in.

He had to get to that African tribe. They owed him big for the ghoul he brought under control (no need for them to know he was also the one that created it), and if Potter suddenly had True Sight, it was time for him to treat the boy seriously, and prepare such an attack from which the constant thorn in his side will not be able to recover. But alas, a body was needed first of all.

The great shamans used a different power, Voldemort learned in his days of travel, gathering the arcane and the dark knowledge to secure his immortality - instead of affecting the world directly they negotiated, trapped and bound the beings of the Astral plane - where the thoughts, emotions and the overall magical background of Earth could be felt and manipulated. Additionally, the dark-skinned wizards had a large set of battle rituals, turning the world around them into their weapon - destroying their enemies with ravines, quicksand, lighting and dust storms. The issues began when the animated corpses entered the equation - for they were such an abomination, in the words of one of the shamans that Voldemort captured, that the world dared not touch them. All of these powers relied on the Astral plane - and sadly Voldemort did not possess the gift of Astral walking as shamans called it, but it was nothing that a ritual circle and a few sacrificed humans could not fix, even if that bothersome procedure was needed for every entrance.

As Astral was a mirror for all thoughts and emotions, legilimency as it turned out directly channelled that power, to create a link between the caster and the victim. However, with the right manipulations of the spirit, the risk of the victim suddenly being able to defend or even worse, push your attack out, became miniscule - for who can resist the onslaught of memories kindly provided by a spirit that still remembered when the first human opened their eyes under the starlit savannah. Voldemort did not for a second regret the effort that he went to get the knowledge, and it seems he will need to visit his old friends to get some more. But the body is to come first.

Lord Voldemort proceeded with a slew of repelling and notice-me-not charms - it would not be due for anyone to walk in on him when he is at his weakest. But he would not be this weak for long.

It is with this action that two hundred miles away, a boy named Harry Potter woke up from his strange dream.

The days of summer crawled at a snail's pace at number 4 Privet drive. Harry recently received a letter delivered by Fawkes from Dumbledore, outlining that despite no answers for how his sight awakened, and what it meant, Harry was not to leave his home on 4 Privet Drive. The dreams of the ancient mausoleum still called out to Harry every night. And a mausoleum it was, for Harry recognised the structure in the heart of the desert as one. Apparently, all magicals of Ancient Egypt, or Kemet as they called themselves, were to be buried in the massive tunnel complex, culminating in the simple structure, where the most powerful one was resting. It is with the constant gruelling work courtesy of Dursleys and pursued by the dreams of the mausoleum in the desert that Harry whiled his summer away.

The glimpse of Voldemort, Harry dismissed as a proper dream for once, and not a Binns special as he started to call the visions of the ancient times. For how could it be the Dark Lord, if all he is doing is sitting on an armchair by the fire in a house, looking at the flames, and not killing people or something?

Harry shook his head to get the last of the sleep out of his system, and a brief look at the clock confirmed what he suspected all along - 5 am on the dot. It is almost as if he was forced by whatever power to start the day when every normal (as much as he reminded himself of Uncle Vernon when he said that) person was still fast asleep.

Harry stretched and cast his inner eye inside himself. The bright golden flow of power inside him, in every blood vessel, provided a comforting glow to him. What had him concerned was that the previously barely noticeable specks of grey have grown, to become filaments and eddies in his flowing magic. He became more and more convinced that he has to get to the mausoleum as soon as he can, and following some primal instinct, Harry twisted his shoulders and disappeared with a pop, heralded only by a small gap in his cousin's snores coming from the nearby bedroom.

A strange silver device on Albus Dumbledore's desk has whirred and buzzed, but the elderly wizard was fast asleep, and we will never know what could have happened if he did manage to wake up and stop Harry Potter from the fateful step into the ancient mausoleum.

The structure was just ahead of Harry, so tempting, so inviting. In the true sight it flared silver, the same colour that Hermione's time turner did, but so, so much brighter. Harry just picked up the pace. This place promised him the answers to most everything he was looking for.

It is only when Harry entered and the door locked behind him, submerging him in total darkness that the compulsion stopped. He realised that he, in fact, is only in his pyjamas, in the middle of the desert, with no food, water or means to get home. All the knocking on the door was futile, as was trying to move the thick stone. So Harry summoned his willpower and tried to feed a trickle of his golden power with the intent of moving the stone, but as a speck of grey touched the ancient structure, Harry's vision went black and he hit the floor, with a vision already starting.

The grand circle of Ra was to be assembled today - the High Priest decided as he traversed the sacred hallways to the very meeting chamber where Kemet's most powerful were to gather. The Sleeping Gods were waking up, and the fragile world of today could not, and should not, be subjected to their power. His predecessor thought otherwise, and precisely that was the reason why he now held the mantle, and that old man was at the bottom of the Nile. The people were not happy, to say the least, if the horrors that were now locked in the Underworld were to start stirring, or worse yet, started to remember their desire for mortal flesh. And no amount of great victories would be worth the desolation that this event will inevitably bring.

The soft lighting of the oil lamps threw strange, elongated shadows on the walls of the chamber. The soft drone of the advisor would, in any other case, put people to sleep but not when the news was of this magnitude.

"There have been at least three sightings of the ancient bone-men, with a brave and cunning priest managing to smite one of the foul creatures at the cost of his life. This is a most concerning event, for the bone-men were not seen since we brought about the wrath of the Ancient Ones"

No one wanted to think that the legends of old were factually correct, but the High Priest was left with little choice. The songs and the clay tablets say that fire rained from the sky day and night for three days and people were disappearing from their beds by a force unknowable and unstoppable if they went to sleep - and if even a tenth of the horrors described, and the High Priest believed each word of that to be true, the Ancient Gods were not to be trifled with.

"Esteemed Men, I believe I have a solution" The High Priest intoned. The murmurs in the room died at once. "The circle of Ra is to be assembled. We must lock the gates and seal them ourselves, preventing access to the entity that lies in the underworld if we have any hope of those gates remaining closed"

This caused an uproar. Cups were thrown, insults and curses yelled. The Military Leader even raised his fists, with spittle yelling at the priest "And how do you say we stop the Greeks? Without that power, we are sure to crumble! Do you want your daughters to be sold as slaves?"

The lights dimmed. Suddenly everyone was very well aware of why The High Priest got and maintained his position.

"You want to stop the Greeks? Tell me, Achillas, do you care more for some acres of land, or for the essence of every person in this room. For if we do as you say, that which you now control, will be used against you a thousandfold. And I'm not referring to steel, I'm talking about what you used on the field of tears"

The commander flinched at his name being used, for names had power and a man like the High Priest knew how to use it. The field of tears still haunted the dreams of the commander, the enemy screaming as their corpses turned to dust, their soul sucked into the desert sand as if it was an ocean. In this silence, the High Priest spoke again.

"The circle of Ra will close the gate, at the expense of one of our advantages. The priests will still use their power for the war effort, but we cannot risk the death of the immortal soul for some conquest"

Harry woke up, surprisingly standing, but unable to move. He was more than startled by a hissing voice beside him.

"So you did come. Well, it is time for you to learn then!"

With that Harry was thrust into pure agony - he was being choked by an unknown power on top of feeling like red-hot knives were carving shapes into him, and no matter how much he struggled, he could not get a breath of air in. Harry then realised - if he can't move it must be magic, and magic must be studied with the True Sight. He looked inside and saw - a lone spark of life, about to be extinguished by the black tendrils encroaching from outside his body. But there were more sparks around - faint, but present. Overcoming the blinding pain, Harry willed one of them to move to his core and almost lost all control when it merged with him. The next while was spent hastily and greedily absorbing the sparks around him and battling to keep the tendrils out.

Harry's essence finally grew large enough to be able to expel the ancient trap. He, already mentally numb to the pain, coalesced it into a single luminescent ball, and drove the offending darkness out of the channels by which his magic flowed - briefly noting that grey and gold were in almost even proportions by now, melting and alloying with each other. It was after this massive push that Harry was pulled back into reality.

"Good, worm. Now watch carefully - this is the ancient symbol for stability. Visualise it"

When Harry only closed his eyes tiredly, he was greeted with a pain that almost made his eyeballs pop out of his skull.

"Want me to do that again, worm?" the hissing voice mocked Harry's powerlessness "Do it!"

Hence began Harry's tutelage from the Voice in the Mausoleum - filled with pain and brief strokes of success. As time went on, Harry managed to see the shapes, the patterns, the Power in the ancient symbols, and during his punishments managed to sneak a look with true sight at the tool that brought him so much pain. It looked like a silver lance with a fine web where the tip would be - attaching itself to the channels of the victim, and pulsing rapidly, distorting the magic.

When upon one such punishment Harry threw it back in return, putting his power in it, the voice in the darkness only laughed and deflected it.

"Maybe you are ready, worm"

It is with that that the doors to the cave opened and Harry wasted no time escaping that place, only to be stopped by someone's firm hands.

"I am Vittorio Bianchi from The Vatican City committee for Magical affairs, and in the name of the God you are under arrest for the practice of Forbidden Magics"

"If things were looking up from the detainment and torture in the cave by darkness and pain, it was a very marginal improvement," Harry thought before red filled his vision and he passed out again.


	3. CH3

**The Price of Magic - CH3**

 **AN: usual disclaimers apply**

Peter Pettigrew was never a brave wizard despite finishing Gryffindor - he, true to his Animagus form, was always somewhere in the background, disappearing when even a hint of danger happened. This made him perfect for infiltration and what he was about to do - namely steal a small amount of blood from the now comatose, but still very powerful enemies of his Master - Alice and Frank Longbottom.

He remembered how well protected St Mungo was and was ready to come back later when he was better prepared, but his fears were unfounded - in the years of Fudge and hence Lucius was in power the security went from three Aurors posted with a sneakoscope, to a single orderly. The early morning meant that the orderly was quietly napping instead of watchfully patrolling the entrance.

A few notice-me-not charms, coupled with a cheap invisibility cloak and a silencing charm, and Peter was in the Janus Thickey Ward past the measly security. A simple unlocking spell and he was in the spacious room, with it's few residents sleeping soundly in their beds. The Longbottoms were jerking in their sleep, while Lockhart slept peacefully on the nearby bed, only sometimes smiling and muttering. Peter never liked the younger man. Even when Peter was at the peak of Hogwarts - 7th year, Lockhart was able to have all the popularity and adoration that Peter never had despite, or maybe because of, being with the Marauders.

Pettigrew silenced and tied up first Frank and then Alice, and woke them up. The ritual required unwilling victims, so they needed to be at least instinctually aware of what was going on. A few stinging hexes and the pair of ex-Aurors were more than struggling away from Wormtail. If not for the silencing charm, the pair would have woken everyone up around them - but they could scream their lungs out and not make a sound. A few cuts, and quiet episkeys later and two vials of blood were filled and no-one would be the wiser. His job was done and he knocked the two ex-Aurors out.

"Would you like me to sign your autograph?" - Pettigrew heard a pleasant voice from behind him and saw Lockhart sitting up on his bed, staring at Peter with his sky blue eyes and smiling widely. The ex-writer did not seem to mind the bloodied knife or the wand in the hands of Peter.

Peter, in this moment in time, absolutely despised this shell of a man - everything about him. It's this momentary impulse of hate that made Pettigrew first knock Lockhart out, put a silencing charm on him and with a prank spell conjure a wad of bubblegum, not in the hair or clothes, but in the throat of the wizard. The wheezes and coughs were silent as Lockhart lived his final moments. Wormtail looked around for a plausible explanation and found a few wrappers by Alice's bed, quickly putting them on Lockhart's pillow. It was time to get the hell out of the hospital.

Re-applying all the hiding measures, leaving the room and locking it, he was startled by the sudden alarm, and an automated announcement - "Janus Thickey Ward, Code Blue". Pettigrew did not know what that meant, and so he hastily made his way out of the place, almost getting hit by a mediwitch running to the ward, carrying a few potions.

A brief run out of the magic hospital and Wormtail was back near Little Hangleton. His Master would be proud.

Dumbledore cast a tempus from behind his desk, revealing 11.27pm. The Headmaster has not been sleeping well - it has been three weeks since Harry Potter disappeared from his home. If the artefact on his desk was to be trusted - at 5.02 am. The strange, early time, as well as lack of packing, suggested nothing good - either Harry was kidnapped, or worse. But there have been no proclamations from Voldemort, and Severus' dark mark was only slowly getting darker. No orders for ransom were raised, and no-one was reporting anything suspicious except the Vatican - apparently, something ancient and time-based cropped up in Egypt.

"Egypt - wasn't Harry saying something about a temple in the desert?" Dumbledore thought out loud and his familiar Fawkes did a gentle trill, full of sadness but hope at the same time. Dumbledore appreciated the calming effect of the phoenix and he needed it right now as he took out a map conducted a scrying ritual for Harry Potter. What would have required lesser wizard's long incantations, potions, parts of the subject, Dumbledore substituted with a memory and an inordinate amount of personal power. Yielding nothing as before, even when he narrowed it to only Egypt. This only meant three options: Harry was behind powerful wards, or Harry now is not Harry that Dumbledore remembered - became a werewolf or something akin to that. If the young Potter was dead, the ritual would have given him a blinding headache from a momentary view of that which lies outside our understanding. So Dumbledore was only marginally worried for his student, and, not that he would admit this to anyone, the grandson he never had. Marginally, for young Potter was blessed, or cursed, with being able to make his way out of virtually anything that would have an ordinary wizard long dead, or worse.

"Perhaps the prophecy is at play here," Dumbledore thought to himself, as he returned to work through the Hogwarts papers - the Triwizard tournament being held really did add a lot to his plate as the Headmaster.

He was, however, much calmer in his worry for young Mr Potter as opposed to the Weasleys, as first Molly gave him a thorough chewing out, and then Arthur quietly, but in no vague terms explained that clearly Harry's safety with Dursleys was compromised and that he, Albus Dumbledore, is no longer justified in keeping Harry with the Muggles. Not that Albus was too happy about forcing the young man back there every summer, but alas, comfort needed to be sacrificed for safety that blood wards provided, even if that safety apparently was not enough. Arthur suggested that the least Albus could do is to let Harry come to the Quidditch, although now with Harry missing for three weeks and no tangible leads despite all of the Old Guard on the lookout, there was a poor chance that Harry would be able to come.

It was with these heavy thoughts that Dumbledore felt his ICW signet heat up, with the words E.M clearly visible on the surface. "Why has ICW convened an emergency meeting?" the Headmaster muttered. And it was highly unusual, as the last time such an emergency session was called when a Dark Lord tried a demonic summoning ritual in the 1918's. Luckily most of the process was stopped, although a plague from the tear in the reality did spread to the muggles, now known as Spanish Flu.

Dumbledore quickly dressed and packed his belongings, tucking a few artefacts and emergency portkeys into his wide robes. He was not as over-prepared as his old friend Alastor, or at least not as vocal about it, but you don't defeat a Dark Lord, especially one that knows you so intimately, without a healthy dose of paranoia. Dumbledore sighed - his old body was no longer as easily following what his mind wanted to do, and he mentally asked Fawkes to transport him to the headquarters, readying himself for a long night.

Harry woke up in an empty clean room, with two chairs bolted to the floor and a small table. After a look around the room, he turned the True Sight inside himself and found that the grey and gold of his magic have merged together - what that meant he still did not know. "Something else I should ask Professor Dumbledore about" Harry muttered as he paced the empty room, and tried to open the door to what was more and more likely a prison cell. With the door not budging, Harry briefly accessed it with the true sight, finding that it had a strange inner glow to it, but no recognisable enchantments.

He was startled by the voice coming from seemingly nowhere "Prisoner, step back from the door, and sit on the chair. Harry felt his best bet would be to cooperate, instead of scream for lawyers and the like, how he often saw on his Aunts soap operas.

An unassuming middle-aged man, clean shaven with a suit and a leather-bound Bible walked into the room. Despite so very bleak and normal on the outside, he positively glowed with power when Harry looked at him with True Sight, almost to the level of Dumbledore. The man sat down opposite Harry and put down a simple wide lens camera in a night unnoticeable groove on the table. Satisfied with the result, the man pressed the recording button, and in a pleasant baritone intoned:

"The date of the recording is June 23, 1993. The interrogator is Chief Inquisitor. Detainee, please state your name for the record."

Surprised at such high technology coming from a wizard, Harry managed to squeeze out "Harry James Potter"

"Mr Potter, are you aware why you have been detained?". Harry shook his head, yielding a frown and "Please verbally answer the question"

The interrogation lasted for what seemed like hours, where Harry was grilled on everything, from his childhood and education, to how he ended up in Egypt, and what did he do and learn in the mausoleum from the voice in the dark. By the end, Harry was reduced to a nervous wreck, while the Chief Inquisitor looked as fresh as when he walked in. Finally, the camera was switched off, and the Inquisitor stated "Now Mr Potter, you may have some questions"

"Did I break any laws?" was the first thing that Harry blurted out

"This remains to be seen, but for now you seemed to be a victim of a compulsion. There is, however, the issue of you possessing an inherently illegal power, and so we will have to bind it" came the reply from the Inquisitor

"What do you mean, illegal power? And how do you bind it?" Harry was getting worried - this was not the situation he wanted to find himself in, with the brunt of the system brought against him. The example of Sirius was on his mind, and he was getting quite nervous.

"The ability to control time and space is an abomination to the Lord. We will ask for his divine power in separating that from your other, equally abominable, but sadly untouchable powers"

Came the passionate replica out of the Inquisitor. Harry wanted to ask more questions but the Inquisitor steamrolled on, getting more and more passionate and fiery in his speech.

"For you lost your immortal soul when you entered into the contract with the foul Sleeping One, for the power you call magic. Too weak to use your personal power and too blind to see the corruption that Its influence brings on you. But the old pact is still sealed, and we cannot save you from your own ignorance. While we all worked for our power, through prayer and practice, you sold your soul! Even the savages of Africa rely on their own powers and achievements, not from the crumbs of free power your kind lives off, at the cost of the essence when you die!"

Harry had no idea what this fanatic, and it was plain to see that his man was one, was talking about, but it sounded like a good time to get out of there. Almost in response to that thought, the power within Harry rose up, noticed by the Inquisitor who jumped up and laughed at Harry.

"The Sleeping One you belong to has no power here, for this place has been sanctified and the Old Gods can't hear your calls! Prepare for justice!"

The man placed his hand on the Bible and began a psalm, each and every word of his reverberating with a strange power, but the ancient force in Harry's blood awoke first. The time in the room crawled to a halt as the universe itself started responding to Harry's will. The Inquisitor froze with his mouth open mid-chant, a comical position if not for the waves of power rolling off him, seen by the True Sight and felt by Harry in an instinctive way.

Harry reached his energy out and brought into the existence a lance of pure power that he was punished with so many times, and the Inquisitor crumpled over. Clearly, he had no defence against this strange power that Harry unlocked in the mausoleum, through blood and torture in the 'kind' hands of the Voice in the Dark. Almost absently turning on the True Sight, Harry saw that the man was still alive, if barely.

Harry sensed danger emanating from the doors and moved away. The world was still moving at a snail's pace, and Harry simply jumped past the response group headed to his cell. He noticed the runes around each cell, thrumming with power - and promised to himself he will ask Dumbledore about this place when he got out.

A golden beam of light, coming off from a man in a priest uniform, clipped Harry on the arm, and it felt like a red-hot knife dug itself into where it hit - but Harry was more than able to handle pain after what happened in the mausoleum. He just replied with another lance of silver and picked up the pace. He did not see the recipient on the floor virtually torn apart by the power, nor did he see the guard slamming the alarm button. What Harry did sense though, is the instant weight of a mind-numbingly powerful presence on his mind - the heavy response unit was already in the building, and was calling onto the power of the Lord. Operating on nothing but intuition, Harry willed himself to go back home, and with a flash of silver, tearing through all the wards in place, he was back at 4 Privet Drive.

Back at the Vatican cells pandemonium was going down. The Inquisitor was crippled, and the star student was destroyed by the ancient power that the green-eyed wizard wielded, with the said wizard escaping with barely a scratch. With a rasp and a cough of blood from the lungs, the Inquisitor told the guard tending to him "Send out the message. The time mage is free. God save us all". With a nod, the guard relayed the message, and via a quick phone call, just 20 minutes later, the Vatican representative to the ICW invoked his power to hold an emergency meeting.


End file.
